


Aegri Somnia

by darjeeling



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Companion-centric, Ensemble Cast, F/F, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 10:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12408900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darjeeling/pseuds/darjeeling
Summary: Everything had been going well for so long - the battle seemed almost at hand. Through time and dedication, despite his faults, the Courier had gained a huge assortment of people ready and willing to take back the Mojave from the violence of the Legion! It was the stuff out of storybooks.So when Marion Tremblay, Courier Six, went missing, things seemed to freeze. Threads left loose, so many things left half-done.Now, things have been jolted back to life - and those forgotten threads, these people who were closest to Tremblay, are in for an unpleasant awakening. Is this really the Courier they once knew? Furthermore, how are they to fix this absolutely fucking ridiculous mess that's been left for them to clean up?-- Ensemble, ALL companions included. Characters added as they become relevant.





	Aegri Somnia

**Author's Note:**

> So, yes, this is an OC story. But let me just start out by saying, this fic is first and foremost a companion-fic. Interactions between them are front and center. I DO fully intend to add in, like, a ridiculous number of characters.

The second battle of Hoover Dam came suddenly. 

Things had been moving for so fast for so long, the sudden drought in events had come as such a relief for most that the factions of the Mojave had nearly settled into a sort of equilibrium. With most of the Legion's systematic destruction, even with all of their pseudo-military expertise there wasn't much of a threat to their actions. With their nose down, the New California Republic had done their best to keep the Mojave calm - and had been doing a rather decent job at it. With the Legion's efforts at eradicating Raiders somewhat stifled by their sheer lack of numbers, the raider parties had grown somewhat more bold as though to make up for it - with the added threat of the wilderness continuing to attempt to infringe upon society, the NCR kept themselves slightly too busy to completely quash out the remainder of the Legion.

Even so, it was calmer.

Which made it all the more confusing to Gannon as to where the Courier had gone.  
Going from occasional ventures into the wilderness to actually help the world had been one of Gannon's only escapes from the monotony of Freeside's problems - and without that distraction, he was back to how he was before. Helping the impoverished, or whatever.

Not that that was bad or anything, Gannon had decided. It was just a far cry from what he had thought it was going to be. Having gone through the trouble of destroying as much of the Legion as they had, gathered the Remnants, readied them for battle... it was odd.

Going from preparing for a horrible battle, a preparation laden with mystique and strategy, to complete radio silence? It wasn't a good sign, especially for a busybody like the Courier.

So how exactly they ended up in the current situation wasn't entirely out of nowhere, Gannon decided, squinting as he tried his best to sew up the wound in the dim lighting. It just wasn't what anyone had expected after two years.

Two entire years... it seemed almost surreal, the way things had gone on. News came slowly, the sudden rush of camp after camp of Legion soldiers being run so decisively out of the Mojave one way or another coming to a complete stop. It wasn't a mystery why the drought had come on, either - it all came back to them.

Gannon grit his teeth as he held the limb he was so hopefully suturing down. Of course it was too good to be true.

Some nobody courier out in the Mojave, shot through the brain only to wake up and make their way through the irradiated wastes, helping people for next to nothing... it almost seemed too fantastical to be true, if Gannon hadn't met the Courier himself. Of course, the rumours had never really talked about the weirder parts of the individual, but with how ridiculous the basis of the story was, how much weirder would people believe?

Marion Tremblay. Gannon had first made their acquaintance in the Followers camp in the middle of the night, startled into consciousness by a scruffy-looking vagabond shuffling shamelessly through his belongings. After raising a huge fuss, enough to wake up half the camp, the young individual had sheepishly coughed up more than enough caps for the Med-X and other supplies they had been snatching up.

The failed thief, Tremblay, had shamefully - and stiltedly - explained that they had been intending to purchase some supplies but hadn't wanted to wake anyone up. Not that Gannon believed that.

Even so, Tremblay had become a semi-frequent fixture of the camp in the coming weeks. From helping with menial tasks to supply runs, the Courier continued to impose his uncomfortable presence upon them, even through Gannon's jabs - and jobs.

Eventually it became more of a game - Gannon would give him a job, get this or that or the other thing, and Tremblay would do it. Each errand more dangerous than the last, the Courier would head out and appear sooner or later, awkward and apologetic but supplies in hand. The camp was thriving, and Gannon was somewhere between charmed and exhausted.

So when it came to a particularly dangerous job, when Tremblay had requested his presence along on the trip, Gannon had acquiesced and gone along for the ride. Why not, he had figured, might as well see what made this kid so unkillable - what drove him to continue to help for little to no reward.

It had turned out the rumours of a Courier beaned through the brain had been about, well, THAT courier. Or at least, that's what Gannon figured when he ended up going along for a three week-long trip across the Mojave with one of the most impossible individuals he'd ever encountered.

One way or another, Arcade Gannon knew the Courier. Or at least he thought he did. But this? This battle, the results, everything about what was happening? This wasn't the courier. This wasn't neurotic, overly helpful Tremblay, whose shaking hands and darting eyes could barely function - there was no way it could be.

As much as all proof sought to indicate otherwise, there was just no way.

The little lamp sitting next to Gannon in the first-aid tent flickered. Swearing under his breath, Gannon hurried to finish up bandaging the man, before doing his best to inspect what was wrong with it now. Camp McCarran struggled with power issues lately, and Gannon couldn't tell if it should be accredited to malice or incompetence, but either way it complicated his job significantly at night.

Especially considering most of the attacks seemed to be AT night, anyway. Especially since wounds from missiles tended to be a lot more difficult to clean and close than simple bullets. Gannon didn't even know why any of these people decided to attack at night anyway - it wasn't like Securitrons had any struggles seeing at night, if anything it just made their own jobs harder.

One way or another, Gannon sighed. All he was doing at this point was riling himself up more. 

At least the poor fuck he was stitching up had passed out - damn fool probably deserved it, attacking the Strip with just a couple of buddies. Hell did he think he was doing? Lucky he even got this far, anyway.

Lucky that Camp McCarran was holding up, too. Despite the fact that the place was essentially just a hodgepodge of people, NCR and Followers and civillians alike, it was still standing - a bastion of hope so close to the Strip. Overpopulated as hell, and crumbling at the seams, but still standing.

Lucky that despite the tragedy at the dam, there was still people fighting back.

Lucky that the attack at the dam had come so suddenly that while the Followers had had enough time to make it to the battle, that only a few of them had died. That wherever they were hiding now, they'd managed to get a message to Gannon, telling him what had happened.

Lucky that Gannon had been halfway across the Mojave on business when everything had happened. So, so lucky that he'd managed to miss everything, coming back to news that everything had changed in a moment.

So, maybe it was sudden. Maybe there was no way he could have known.

Didn't help him while his patients (people from all over the Mojave, resisting and escaping) bled out on his table.

Gannon sighed, a growling, hoarse sound as he put his face in his hands.

So, so lucky. So, so sudden.

-

Espionage wasn't exactly Boone's strong suit. His thing was sniping, obviously - laying in wait, the spider waiting for the fly to land in its web. This sneaking around shit? This felt more like he was the fly, watching its every footstep as it weaved between the threads of silk, creeping ever closer to the spider's waiting maw...

So, no. It wasn't exactly his thing. Even so, it was his turn - he had volunteered, after all.

Just walk around the Strip, look for people wanting an out, those who were desperate and afraid, and help sneak them out. Dress up nice and pretty and pretend, just like everyone else on the Strip, that things were completely fine and safe. It was a duty all of them had to undergo, and it had a surprisingly good track record in terms of safety - only a couple individuals hadn't come back after being sent in, which was pretty impressive. It seemed as though the higher-ups had more important things to worry about than scan their citizens for signs of treachery.

As much as Boone didn't want to be here, walking around stiffly in a dirty suit without his glasses, bumping elbows with Securitrons and traitors, the poor people who had simply gotten caught up in this all needed them. Needed him.

Fingers stretching imperceptibly for a rifle that wasn't there, Boone steeled himself as he strolled as casually as he could possibly manage towards the shell of the Ultra-Luxe. The place was more of a mess hall, lately, just a little overcrowded, but if there was anywhere to stand around and listen? It was the Luxe.

Boone hovered amidst the populace as they meandered in, letting a bit of his exhaustion show on his face. It was difficult to let weakness show, but if he was to blend in with the other flies in this web, it was necessary. None of these people looked confident to him - some of them looked scared, some looked tired, some of them almost seemed content... but none of them moved with the confidence of a protected people.

The walls of the Luxe seemed duller than they did before. Not that that was odd - with its change from a high-class casino to a glorified cafeteria, the increase in populace probably made it harder to clean. The sparkling lights illuminated faces being herded neatly along the halls by cold steel chassis murmuring words of hollow encouragement.

"Welcome to the Ultra-Luxe. Keep the line moving and no force will be exerted."

Boone didn't wince at the robotic tone next to his face, even as he was shoved against it by an over-eager individual pushing past him. The Securitron hesitated, as though contemplating whether that was enough of an offense to dignify "exerting force", and the sniper stiffened, eyeing the exit carefully. The murmuring around him didn't even seem to change, and eventually the machine seemed to dismiss him, before rolling along ahead.

"Welcome to the Ultra-Luxe. Keep the line moving and no force will be exerted. Food will be distributed at oh-seven-hundred, twelve-hundred, and eighteen-hundred. Supplies will be distributed at..."

Watching as the robot rolled away, it's soldier-like tone fading into the motonony around him, Boone sighed through his teeth.

Eventually making his way to the dining room through the crowd, Boone settled in a stray chair, plucking a discarded cup from the table to "sip" at. Eyes scanning his surroundings, Boone eyed the exits carefully. It was getting late, there was no way someone wasn't getting tired enough to complain, but most of the conversations he seemed to be overhearing were about the weather.

He wondered whether that was just human nature, avoiding the difficult, or whether it was actively policed. It didn't seem like there was an overly large number of guards in this room, despite the volatile nature of the situation. He supposed that was probably due to the fact that the Securitrons' favourite weapon seemed to be missile launchers - it would be hard to avoid one of those fired into a crowd, probably.

Boone held his cup patiently. There was more than enough to think about right now, and he'd kept focused for longer in far more dangerous situations. Besides, he was on this assignment for a good while - he'd eventually have to actually go for food, too.

Through it all, his patience stayed steadfast. Same as his aim. That wasn't to say it wasn't frustrating - there was very little he could think of that wasn't as obnoxious as... all of this. But it had been going on for a while - long enough that he had worked through most of it on his own.

More or less.

He didn't notice it, but Boone's finger tapped gently on the side of the mug as he thought. 

Bitter Springs rose to his mind, unbidden - not the first time, but the second. The night where his companion had stayed awake, only able to sleep after they had talked, the morning where they stood back to back. The first time vengeance didn't wash over him as a wave.

The kid wasn't bright in the traditional sense, Boone had realized pretty early on. He had gotten confused when people talked too fast, when there was too many things to do, when time constraints were present, when things got too chaotic. Even so, the courier handled a gauss rifle like it was part of him, treated hacking into the most protected terminals like a game, and seemed nigh-impossible to kill.

And he seemed to understand about other things. When the world seemed shielded by a thick wall of fog, of anger, the Courier would drop everything to accommodate. He wasn't good with people, but he would do his best to calm, to repair, to fix.

Metal bumping into Boone's back shook him from his revere, sending a shock up his spine.

Securitrons didn't bump into people, especially followed by a gingerly apologetic fleeting tap of a hand on his shoulder. They didn't mutter something before rushing off, and they certainly weren't dressed in half-assed armor, they didn't have pale blue eyes darting around as they did their best to hide away into the crowd despite their rather obvious armor.

Securitrons weren't the Courier.

-

Raul was bored. Not as bored as he was when he'd been locked up on Black Mountain, though. Plus, there was a vague fog of anxiety and terror that - oh, wait, had that at Black Mountain, too.

In fact, the only difference he could really figure was the feeling of deep, deep, impossibly deep annoyance.

It wasn't like he wanted to be here, after all. If he had his way, he'd be sitting cozily in the Presidential Suite, sucking back Sarsaparillas and complaining to a robot butler. Or maybe he wanted to be out in the streets at the Strip, shooting down Securitron after Securitron, going out in a blaze of glory and clearing the path for the resistance to storm the Lucky 38.

Literally either one would probably be fine at this point, he decided, finishing off cleaning the crappy pistol he'd been handed. There was only so much he could do for those things, and this one seemed beyond anything anyone could do for it. Moving on to the next - a combat rifle that looked in a lot better shape than the previous - Raul grimaced. "I'm still going to need more supplies."

"You said that last time, and I keep saying-"

"'The brave men and women on the frontlines are giving the best they can', I know, I know," Raul interrupted. "You know, bo- slick, it's already bad enough with the radio repeating the same five songs."

The NCR soldier in front of him, Margaret or something, scoffed, before inspecting the discarded pistol quietly. "You know, mister Tejada, we really do appreciate your help."

Of course they did, Raul sighed. It's not like anyone else in this haphazard camp seemed to know how to repair weapons. Or even sew their clothes. Or bathe - which was ironic, considering the giant lake right beside them. Or, well, not get shot. It would be funny, if it weren't absolutely depressing.

Camp Golf was miserable. The place had always been known as a haven for screwups - but now it was a graveyard for them, too. They'd been holed up inside for a good while, doing their best to defend the main building for probably longer than Raul had remembered to ask - and had actually been doing a surprisingly good job of it. Not all of them were dead, at least.

Even so, there was only so much they could do with regular bombardments of missiles assaulting their compound at seemingly random intervals.

The soldier, Mags, cleared her throat, and Raul peered up, frustrated. "What, you didn't want the last word on that one, too?"

"I don't always want the-" Mags started, before a man with a mohawk turned the corner, leaning against the doorway conspicuously. Mags cleared her throat, "I don't always want the last word."

"Maaaags, c'mon. We all know, and we love you for it." The man nodded his head loosely, raising his hands in defense as Mags shot a quick glare at him. "Mostly."

"Anyway, it's not like we're keeping you here against your will or anything. You're free to leave at any time," Mags redirected, turning back to Raul, before hesitating. She grimaced, crossing her arms and frowning. "Razz."

"Yyyup?" mohawk responded languidly.

"Please assure mister Tejada here and I that you're not drunk on the job again?"

Razz frowned, though it seemed a little less than perfectly serious. "Now, Mags, where on Earth would I have found any alcohol in this hellish apocalypse?"

Continuing to fuss with the rifle in front of him, Raul zoned out while they talked. The soldiers here weren't the most obnoxious people on the planet - they were certainly up there, but true to her words, they hadn't threatened him should he leave or anything. It was more that he was 100% sure that he would get blown to smithereens the second he took one step out of the building - plus, they'd probably all die without him and, you know, weapon upkeep. So it was more a moral imprisonment, or something of the sort.

His hand slipped, and a screw slipped from his fingers to the floor. Raul sighed exagerratedly as he pushed his chair back, leaning down to pluck it from the floor under the table.

A familiar series of beeps and chirps from the door ahead jolted him from his focus, and the ghoul slammed the back of his head into the bottom of the table as he struggled to focus on what was happening.

"-IS this?!"

"Well, Mags, that'd be what I originally came here to tell you about before I was so RUDELY chastised for keeping myself sane."

"Downing a mickey ain't keeping yourself sane, you - what IS this!?"

 

The cheery bleeping increased in volume as the creature they were emitted from approached, floating jauntily up to the table as Raul swore viciously, trying to get his bearings.

"I mean, it seemed pretty calm about whatever it wants, and I think I heard some words in there or something at some point, so-"

"SO, you know that bastard up on the Strip uses robots! You can't just let them stroll in here like - pass me that rifle, Razz!"

"Now who's irresponsible? Don't even got your gun!"

"Raul! Is! Fixing! It!"

Raul stared, dizzily with a hand to his head, at the little robot floating above his table as the soldiers bickered in the doorway. "Is that an..."

No, it wasn't just any eyebot. The nicks and stratches along its chassis, a circle of rust where a license plate used to be - no. This was a very specific eyebot.

"ED-E?" 

The soldiers in the doorway quieted down almost instantly, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "You know, you can't just name any old eyebot that floats into our heavily fortified compound-" Razz started, before Mags gave him a very serious look. Even through the haziness, the man seemed to understand, and cleared his throat apologetically.

Raul still gave him a withering look. "No, this is-"

A loud burst of victorious music blared through the little robot's speakers, and Raul waited for a moment for the little robot to quiet down. "Uh, this is ED-E. He used to travel with, uh."

Mags eyed him in uncomfortably forced sympathy and Razz rolled his eyes, suddenly both looking like they really wanted to leave.

It was no surprise - the two of them did the most they could to try to forget that Raul had ever helped the Courier. That they themselves had been assisted by Tremblay. The courier was a sore spot - to most of the Mojave.

"And why's he here, then?" Razz asked, voice low and almost sober. He wasn't leaning against the doorway anymore, and seemed to be watching ED-E a little closer now.

Raul frowned, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, why are you here...?"

The robot whirred silently in the air for a moment, a sound that filled the room's silence. For a moment Raul wondered whether the Camp's air, thick with dust, was making the little fella's filtration-propulsion system struggle a little bit too much, until a CLICK rang out.

"You're shooting, right, ED-E? Or, I guess, recording, shit," the voice trailed off into a mutter.

If Raul wasn't already dizzy from slamming his head against the desk, this would have definitely done it. As it was, his head swam, even as the soldiers swore, Razz raising his dinky little pipe rifle in a last ditch effort. The soldiers chattered viciously, drowning out the voice coming from ED-E for a moment, until a loud BANG sounded out from the robot, calling for complete silence.

The voice seemed startled too, as was quiet for a moment - only distant bangs and shouts came from the robot. Then, in a whisper. "Okay, uh, get this to Raul, you have-" 

The recording cut off.

There was most definitely no mistaking it. In the next breath, three people swore.

-

Veronica had never met the Courier, though it was not for lack of trying. Wandering around the Mojave to bring back materials had never felt as much of a chore as it did when she heard word of the Courier's actions. Fixing this, that, and the other thing - it almost seemed built specifically to mock her. 

All she needed was a person with a stupid-huge heart of gold and a want to help others for no other reason than the goodness of their own heart! That's all!

Now, though, she decided that she'd probably gotten off pretty well, all considering.

After all, with how much Cass lost it the second the guy came up, there was no way he was good news. Well, plus the fact that as far as anyone could tell, he was the reason the entire Mojave had gone tits up the way it did. That was another reason. Probably.

Then again, Jacobstown wasn't exactly known for being a news hub of any sort. The most gossip that Veronica had heard in a while was that Keene had left recently. Not that she knew what a Keene was, or what it meant, but the fact of the matter was that a haven almost exclusively for super mutants wasn't exactly the most welcoming place.

Even so, it was probably the safest place they had found in a while - as much as Pacer complained otherwise.

Her, Cass, and Pacer. The three of them had met up in the secondary chaos of the great sacking of Freeside. Veronica had been searching for more specialized goods up north when the news of the Dam finally hit, and as far as she could tell Cass had probably rode up there on a horse or something. Either way, the lady was pissed as hell and Veronica wasn't exactly against it or anything - especially when they had hit it off beating the shit out of a Securitron.

By the time the tides of battle had turned - ie, they had realized shooting and punching missile-laden robots wasn't the smartest idea - it had been more of a flee-for-your-life kind of deal.

Everything had been so fast and cool and magical that they hadn't even realized Pacer was following them until he'd nearly blown their cover sneaking past a particularly large platoon of robots patrolling around the Strip.

One way or another, they'd ended up skipping town habitually, looking for a place to, well, be. Veronica had been trying to aim them in the least bit towards the Brotherhood's doorstep, but, well. The fact of the matter was that if anyone had any defense against the tyrant's assaults, it was a bunker full of highly-trained, uh, nerds.

In all actuality, the only reason Veronica was so okay with all of this was the fact that she hadn't heard hide nor hair of her family. So they could probably take their time making it over there.

Plus, you know, roaming robots. Wild monstrosities. All that good stuff. It wasn't exactly easy making it out there, lately.

Veronica clenched and unclenched her fists, standing as straight as she possibly could in the doorway of the town. Lot of good she would do down here, alone, if a squadron came by - lot of good any of them would do.

It was getting frustrating. All this waiting around, hoping some bigger, stronger army could stop by and just pick up this whole mess.

Veronica was so lost in thought, she barely noticed when Pacer slid up behind her. "Hey, sweet cheeks. Lay it on me."

It took every ounce of training she had to not smack him upside the head - out of reflexes or otherwise. "Lay what on you?"

Pacer scoffed, leaning against the wall, trying not to look hurt as she made some space between them. "What's got you down, of course."

She frowned. "You mean other than the complete nuclear apocalypse and immediate events pertaining to our current situation?"

"Yyyyyeah," he responded, plucking a comb out of his pocket and peering at her from under his brow. "Other than that."

She could probably tell him anything and be safe - no one listened to him. Guy looked like he was made of grease, after all - and even through it all refused to abandon his whole... look. Never seen a man on the run with such big hair. Almost made her envious.

Veronica shivered a bit in the cold. She was probably being harsh on him. What could she say, everything sucked and he was an easy target.

"Hellooooo? Anyone home?" he tried again, waving his comb in front of her face. "C'mon, dollface. Ain't nothin' sadder than a blue dame."

Veronica stuck her tongue out at him, resisting the urge to try to rub her arms for friction. Didn't really work when you had freezing cold power fists. "What about a dead dame?"

He scoffed, grinning. "Alright, alright. Only thing sadder'n a blue dame's a dead dame."

"It's just," she started, more or less powering through what he said. "You know, how many times does the world gotta' end before we start getting to be able to pick it back up? Like, how much do we gotta' lose?"

Pacer actually hesitated.

"It's just frustrating that my family's out there doing who-knows-what just because one guy got too much power again. Plus, uh, Cass won't talk to me again," Veronica trailed off. 

Pacer made a thoughtful noise. "Did you talk to her aboooout this?"

Clearing her throat, Veronica nodded bashfully.

"Oh, babe, come on - we both know she gets real sore about that fella!" the man chastised, flipping the comb between his fingers. He seemed to actually be thoughtful, a frown marring his features. "Not that she don't get sore about everything. But, you know, especially sore. Like salt-in-the-wounds kinda' sore."

Veronica stared off onto the snowy trail ahead. "I know. I know." It was more to herself than anything.

"Well, how about this," Pacer proclaimed, slipping in front of her view. He gestured theatrically with his arms as he talked, and not for the first time Veronica wondered why the fuck he was wearing his leather jacket when they were on a snowy mountain. "I'll go talk her down, you know, give her a lil bit of down-to-earth Pacer talk? Remind her of the important things in life."

"Or give her something else to be pissed at."

"Or that, you know, take whatcha' get, am I right?" Pacer grinned, putting his comb back in his pocket. "Any takers? How about you, sir, in the tophat? Or you, the dame with the big paws and the beautiful eyes?"

Veronica snorted, rolling her eyes - but unable to hide a grin. "I'm still a lesbian, Pacer."

He laughed, slinking back to the main building peppily. "So is that a yes?"

"It would be really helpful, yeah. And can you check how much whiskey she's got in her bag tonight?"

"Only if she don't brain me the second she gets a chance, babe."

Things weren't the worst, Veronica decided as she was left alone. Even though she was stuck in this hellhole where sometimes her gloves got stuck to themselves and sometimes they had to leave in the night... well, it WAS the apocalypse, after all.

-

"Four to the clinic, and at least two more platoons to the plant. With less power, there's no way they won't try to take it back, I guess, I think - like, they know for a fact there's no way they'll get the dam back, so of course they'll try to get the smaller target, right? And figure out what that that detective knows before he comes sneaking back around here, because. I don't know. Because."

"Of course, sir, what a fantastic suggestion! It's always incredible how thoughtful you are when you're planning, you really do think of everything! May I suggest-"

"Stop calling me 'sir', holy shit, just tell me! Christ."

"Absolutely, sir, may I suggest you take the earnings from the deal with the Caravan company and hire someone to take care of the detective? He seems really good at sniffing around, all-considering, and like you said - you don't need that kind of negativity in your operation!"

"Holy shit, it's like you never fucking listen to me, you complete ass. Like, no? We're not going to kill him? That'll just raise more - oh, Lily, did you say you wanted more yarn?"

Lily looked up from the massive window overlooking the expanse of land below. She blinked thoughtfully, before shaking her head and looking away from the duo. "Oh, no thank you, dearie. But, you see, Leo was wondering when we could go for a trip outside?"

The figure in front of her in power armor seemed a little startled. He looked to the modified securitron next to him, then back to her. His colourful power armor sparked in the silence for a moment before he cleared his throat. "Oh, uh, Lily, I was thinking, maybe next week? We could go clear out some raiders, see, Vault 3 seems to have refilled a bit, and I figured that... you know..."

Adjusting her glasses thoughtfully, Lily nodded. "That sounds absolutely lovely! Do you think we could pick up some groceries while we're out?"

"Um, okay." The man hesitated a minute, thinking. "Yeah, yeah, that seems about right. Now, would it be okay if we got you back into the suite? It's really dangerous, up here, you know-" he mumbled something quietly, rubbing his hands together. "Snipers. And all."

Lily hummed thoughtfully, walking over as daintily as a Nightkin really could. "Of course, dearie. Grandma misses you, you know - we never go on walks anymore."

Clearing his throat, the man took her hand gently and lead her back to the elevator. "Yeah, I know, I've just been-been really busy lately."

"Impossibly busy! And yet you still manage to juggle all the necessary tasks - bravo to you, sir!"

"I swear to fucking god, Yes Man."


End file.
